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Critics merely suffer the grumpies most of the year. Chronic, yes, but not (pardon the expression) critical.
Only in December do we grapple with the grinchies, a more insidious affliction with potential for serious soul damage.
And I'm in (pardon the expression once again) critical condition.
Grinchies: Code Red! All men and women of goodwill report to this review, STAT!
Contrary to popular consensus, most critics do not relish ripping bad shows into bloodied tatters of writerly rage. (Though, we must concede, awfulness offers more snappy, snarky fun with the English language.) Still, most of us love the art form we critique nearly as much as we love ourselves (no small feat). We're offended when those we criticize out of genuine affection for the genre and an earnest desire for quality misread our motives by claiming that if we dislike the theater they've produced, we dislike all theater. But we soldier on, shrugging off the grumpies.
Then comes ... now. When all the soft-pedaling, couched-in-kindness literary tricks we can muster fail to rescue us from the guilt of the grinchies. When criticizing—OK, panning—Christmas shows seems more like, well, grinching, sans the Seussian rhymes. So with apologies for violating the spirit of the season, as my eyebrows arch and my flesh turns a queasy shade of green, I cast an evil gaze toward Whoville, where dwelleth:
Winter Wonderettes. ... Bleech. ... Perhaps I should expand on that: Good intentions notwithstanding, this is a piece of Christmas coal hung by our chimney without care.
Penned by Roger Bean (a buddy of co-director Doug Baker from the Utah Shakespeare Fest), WW is fashioned after the likes of Forever Plaid, The Taffetas, Pete 'n' Keely: variety-show performance crossed with a modicum—in this case, merely a dusting—of plot. But WW sprinkles in audience participation. Imagine mildly nervous theatergoers trying to follow stage directions from performers who've barely been directed themselves. Better yet, don't.
Transported to Small Town USA in 1968, we're taken to a company Christmas party for homey Harper's Hardware. Tippy-topped by bouffants juiced up on Jason Giambi's steroids, the four warbling Double Dubyas (no presidential relation, and played by Kim Glover, Annette Houlihan Verdolino, Nancy Andersen Weakly and Joscelyn Cook) entertain employees (that would be us) with holiday chestnuts as Santa's warm-up act, atop gift-wrap-designed risers. But it seems St. Nick's one absent ol' elf, extending their stage time. Then, in an odd turn just before intermission, the gals and employees (that would be us again) get pink-slipped. But don't fret: We're rehired just in time to go caroling out the door.
Ho-ho-hokum, to be sure, but a pleasant enough premise—or excuse to croon seasonal tunes with a dollop of plot—if carried out with care, rather than carelessness. The ladies nobly muddle through with gumption and good cheer. But Doug Baker and daughter-in-law/co-director/choreographer Stephanie Baker (factor in Doug's playwright pal and isn't this a cozy little group?) seem to have guided this from somewhere north of the North Pole.
It kicks off clumsily, the play beginning before it begins, the stars strolling through the small theater to casually chat up theatergoers—a device meant to engender intimacy but it's halfhearted and flat. Even a production based on a loosely structured script with room for improvisation requires a steady directorial hand, but the Double Dubyas look adrift onstage—sometimes painfully—as if frequently unsure which direction to move in, or move haltingly, or move at all. Meant to evoke the sweet innocence—real-or rose-colored—of Christmases from decades past, the strained bubbly patter between the gals, and with us, feels lifted from a bad holiday school play, and the physical shtick is awkwardly staged. Even their miking is poor, singing voices sinking under the modest live combo accompanying them, leaving them looking like a pantomime act.
None of the four break through this vanilla fog to establish any semblance of character. So slight is attention to detail that one of the leads sports a tattoo on her arm—a bit disconcerting, unless a small-town '60s sweetie leads a secret life as a biker chick. No one expects her to remove it—but why roll up a sleeve to emphasize it?
On the song side, the harmonies are solid and occasionally soar, notably on the warm ballad, "Snowflakes," with "Santa Baby" and "I Want One of Those Christmas Clichés" also standing out. But not enough to take the chill out of Winter Wonderettes.
This holiday eggnog is almost all egg, nearly no nog.
And with that ... Have a grumpy, grinchy Christmas.